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The time was 5:30, on the dot. C.C Tinsley pushed open the heavy, glass doors of the building lobby, shaking the remaining droplets of water off of his collapsed umbrella before pulling the securing strip of fabric tight around the wires and fabric and connecting the velcro together. He stomped his feet 7 times on the floor to minimize the amount of water he left on the milky white floors, and to keep his footsteps quiet. The lady behind the front desk did little to acknowledge Tinsley as he walked passed her, eyes trained ahead the set of stairs at the end of a hall. He only traveled up 3 flights of stairs before a familiar wooden door came into view, with one square, clouded window that had bold black letters printed on it that said, “C.C Tinsley Detective.” It just hit 5:34, and the office owner inserted a brass key into the lock embedded in the door knob, and opened up his office. It was not the neatest place. It had masses of papers strewn about the mahogany desk stationed in the back, and silver filing cabinets pushed up against the wall at random places. Some of the drawers were pulled open, files spilling haphazardly out. To the normal eye, it was disorganized, and had no rhyme or reason. But to C.C. Tinsley, it was all methodical, and everything was exactly where it should be. With a determined smile, he pulled his key out, and closed the door behind him, striding over to his desk. He flicked the little desk lamp on, the green cover radiating a soft orange glow while the unscattered light was directed down at his desk, where documents and autopsies lay, a small, crystal ashtray sat, and an unmarked envelope rested waiting to be opened.
Tinsley pulled out his black cushioned swivel chair, and set himself down so he could begin the day, not even bothering to take off his long tan trench coat, or his light brown fedora. Without batting an eye, he picked up the plain envelope, obviously not concerned about how it got there, or who it was from. He already knew as if the open window behind him wasn’t sign enough. Tinsley pulled open a small drawer in his desk, grabbing a sharp, silver letter opener, the grip small and awkward in the detective’s hand, but the guard and exaggerated pommel kept his grip in place. With practiced ease, he stuck the blade in, and pulled it across the top, not worried about damaging the note inside.
Inside, there was a neatly folded piece of lined paper. “It encourages consistent and neat handwriting!,” the sender had once insisted in one of his previous letters. C.C. Tinsley unfolded the paper and began reading the consistent, neat, and undoubtedly uniform cursive.
My dearest, Tinman,
You have quite a way with words! Your last letter had me in quite the chuckling fit, I’ll tell you that. In all honesty, watching you flounder about for clues is a rather entertaining spectacle! You were always my favorite, and I don’t say that all willy nilly, as you may know!
However, you really need to clean up your office, Tinny. It’s an abhorrent sight to any decent man. Perhaps one day I’ll spruce it up for you, my friend. That thought has been resting in my mind for a while, so I do hope you’ll let me. Though, whether or not you comply matters not.
On the note of your dreadful tendencies, you do realize, that smoking is unhealthy, right? Along with picking up whatever dumpster trash streetside meal that you can every night? I don’t want you dying of natural causes before my own life has terminated. If you look in your bottom drawer, there will be a map. On it, there are restaurants circled that I’d suggest you start frequencing. There is also a book on manners and etiquette. It seems as though you could use some, old sport.
Now, my friend, under this letter there will be a newspaper. I do really think you are going to get a kick out of this one, old sport! Do write back what you thought in your next letter. I am eager to see what you think of my work.
That really is all there is for now, friend. Until my next letter,
Gold
Tinsley read every word with disdain. The Golden Killer, or the “Gold” as the aforementioned criminal as dubbed himself as, had left his first pompous and vague letter on Tinsley’s desk exactly two weeks ago, and they have been having daily correspondence ever since. Tinsley had written back in hopes that he could get some sort of information behind the serial killer. It became ingrained in the detective’s routine. Gold would swing in before Tinsley ever made it to his office, when the killer arrived, Tinsley wasn’t sure. He’d pick up the detective’s response, then write, and leave his own response on Tinsley’s desk. It was evasive, but interactive, and apparently enough to let a friendship form. Tinsley almost had to laugh bitterly. This killer had the audacity to call him a friend after he killed 8 people, and then started to openly mock him via letters? It was absurd to say the least, and it ticked off some of his nerves; however, there were more intriguing matters, such as the newspaper that was mentioned in the letter. Tinsley didn’t even notice the black and white newspaper that was still neatly tied in twine, perched delicately on top of the Golden Killer’s case file. He knew what this meant, but Tinsley looked anyway. With the letter opener, he snapped the twine, and pulled up the light, rough paper, and looked at front headlines. In impossibly large, elongated letters it read,
“THE GOLDEN KILLER CLAIMS HIS 9th LIFE”
All Tinsley could do in the moment was rest the papers down again, and hold his head in his hands, fingers curling up and pulling at his shaggy, sandy brown hair. His annoyance was at a simmer till this brought it up to a raging boil. Of course, there was another dead. Another pawn in what this “Gold” had considered a friendly game between adversaries. He was fucking winning, and they both knew it. In a desperate fit of passion, Tinsley swiped his arm across his desk, sending the news, Gold’s file, and many of his papers flying off the edge. The newspaper caught the lamp in its trajectory, and pulled it down with everything else. It hit the ground harshly, the bulb inside shattering around the man’s shoes, darkness once again drenching the room. Tinsley couldn’t care less at this point. Another life lost because some guy wanted to… he couldn’t even figure out what Gold wanted! Entertainment? A legacy? To hell if he knew. Every letter Gold sent him never answered his queries. It was always a little vague. A little misleading. A little ambiguous. It drove C.C. Tinsley mad.
The detective pulled out a blank piece of paper, and a fountain pen.
~~~
It was certainly a good day to be Ricky Goldsworth. The city was quiet, he had killed some woman named… ah he didn’t know. All he knew was that he needed to get to a certain detective’s place before 4:00. He was eager to see how his favorite partner was dealing with the new murder on his hands. Each step was as exhilarating as each stab he sent into that woman’s chest. Maybe today would be the day, that Mr. Tinsley sees what he had been going for all along. He left enough clues this time, he felt. Of course, only clues that Tinman could find. This was their game.
Ricky easily pulled up the window, poking his head into a familiar office, however, it was in a greater disrepair than Goldsworth had last remembered it to be in. Glass shards were scattered across the floor near the desk of the detective, and more papers were thrown to the floor, including the “Golden Killer” case file, and the newspaper Goldsworth had gotten his friend for his big reveal yesterday morning. “So it didn’t go over well, huh?,” he mused, climbing into the room fully. Glass crunched underneath his feet, and Ricky thought of the days when Tinman would pace around his office without shoes on. He simply wouldn’t stand for any accident to occur, but first, the letter that was left in the same place.
The killer tore it open with glee, a wide smile dancing about on his brown skin. However, inside, was definitely a change a pace. It was concerning, if Ricky wasn’t lying. There was no header, no closer, no anything. It was once sentence that was placed in the middle of the paged. A sentence that said it all, written in borderline illegible chicken scratch. It just said, “I’m not your friend.”
Ricky was honestly caught off guard. C.C. Tinsley always had a retort. He could always make Ricky laugh. He was iron willed, and determined, and that was what Goldsworth really enjoyed about this one. He was fun. But this held no ounce of wit or joy. It was chiseled and cold, and actually cut the hardened criminal. It was unexpected from his end.
Goldsworth hummed, rereading the same sentence, before smiling softly as a plan emerged. He stole a piece of plain white paper from Tinsley’s generous supply.
~~~
C.C. Tinsley pushed open the glass doors that lead into the building where his office was. He had no umbrella today, and no water on his shoes. Dully, he walked past the lady, who still did not care enough to mention his ragged, and disheveled look. Tinsley didn’t care either. He spent the day at the crime, picking out odd occurrences, and trying futaly to get closer to unmasking Gold.
Tinsley walked up the stairs, and stood before his door as he did every day. He inserted the key, heard it click, and let the door invite him in. The room greeted the detective by being neat and organized. It was quite a shock, to say the least. Shock morphed to tense frustration. Only Gold would organize anything without giving a damn about Tinsley’s organization methods. Most notable, however, was the lamp. and the fact that he actually had an intact lamp. On his dusted desk, Tinsley saw the usual letter. He wasted little time, and opened it up.
My dearest, Tinman,
I find it hard to believe that we are not friends. This picture of us holding hands seems to prove otherwise, detective.
Yours truly,
Gold
Behind the usual stripped paper, there was one of his blank white sheets. On it was a crudely drawn picture of an unbelievably tall stick figure man, who almost didn’t have a torso, but a very large smile holding hands with a significantly smaller stick figure, who also was smiling from ear to ear.
That morning, Tinsley actually laughed, deep and genuine, while another sat on the fire escape and smiled triumphantly.